Mary-Sue in the 8th Dimension
by K2Loo
Summary: A strange decaying figure joins the fellowship. And takes the piss.


There seemed to be a great deal of excitement going on, and it was some time before the dead warrior-mage discerned that the mixed group of variously-attractive humanoids in the cave mouth were concerned for one of their number who was playing with the tentacle monster in the lake. Mmmm... demon tentacles. Maybe they'd like him if he got their companion back unspoiled. If not, he could always give him back. It couldn't really hurt could it? 98% of his nerves were fried.  
  
"Oh dear. Give him back! Bad Squiddy!" The voice was terrible. If the most chronic bronchial wrecks of mortal men gathered together, this would surely win the prize for Most Gargling.  
  
Legolas was slightly off put. He had the ridiculously good hearing of his kind and not only had he totally not heard the approach of the stranger who spoke in such a distinctive voice, but he had also not picked out the stealthy approach of the tentacle until it had grabbed Frodo.  
  
The fellowship and assorted hangers on watched in astonishment as the newcomer waded after Frodo shouting at the octopus-thing that he'd "Tan your hide you unfaithful little bastard", as if fear of enormous water- dwelling monstrosities was something that only happened to other people. As the figure returned to the beach, Frodo clamped under one arm, and the kracken-alike in full retreat, the fellowship ran up to thank the Ringbearer's rescuer. It was then that they realised that he lacked quite a few things, like an eye and a hand, and most of the flesh down his left leg. And had, somewhere, gained a number of nonstandard features. Like the worms, and the glowing stone in his left eye socket. And the strange, wide, many-toothed blade apparently attached directly to his left wrist.  
  
"Weren't there meant to be nine of you and one horse?" It was sometime later. The figure, which had, to the company's confusion, apologised for "interrupting your liaison, at least until next the stars are right", introduced himself as Mary-Sue, the twice-dead erstwhile king of Zin, and asked if could borrow any diesel, continued to ask questions and make replies which suggested that he held secret knowledge of what the hell was going on. Even Alanthea, the normally aloof elf princess with the startling green eyes, was beginning to lose her poise before the barrage of apparent nonsense and charnel stench.  
  
"We were but nine that set out," said Gandalf heavily, "but if we keep acquiring new companions of unsurpassed beauty and great woodcraft, I'm not going to complain, am I? Now we must enter the mines; there are still Wargs about; we must say farewell to our horses."  
  
Sam was in tears as he took the packs from Bill's back, and lovingly stroked his tackle for one final time. But Alanthea went to comfort him, kneeling and holding him close, and she wore a smile of secret satisfaction.  
  
The company entered the mines and the doors swung shut.  
  
Water lapped gently on the beach as the beautiful, pure white (which even the most rabid of horse-fancier would hesitate before describing as 'grey') palfrey, who had so far eluded the attentions of even the stickiest mud, tossed her delicate equine head and looked over her shoulder at Bill, tail wide in a gesture of pure invitation.  
  
The door crashed wide again, and a tattered figure ran down the grey shale beach, chainsaw screaming a banshee howl of rage, broken bones held together by spiting, angry lines of force. A few moments of violence and blood and terror, a whinny cuts off abruptly, the sound of liquid splattering on the rocks. A nearly-fleshless hand, still carrying tatters of skin, reaches out and gently strokes Bill's nose  
  
"There, there old boy, she won't bug you any more"  
  
...  
  
Apparently the party of travellers hadn't come this way with intents of consensual intercourse with a thing with tentacles, but were merely passing through on urgent business to the East. There seemed to be some tension between the weary nine of whom dim legends spoke and the mixed collection of irritatingly perfect females, who looked so out of place in the dank horror of Moria. They had, apparently, attached themselves to the group and proven impossible to shift.  
  
"So, Gandalf," whispered Mary-Sue, as the old wizard sat watch through the eternal night, "I know my ignorance of what the hell is going on is a bit odd, but is the countryside usually so utterly lousy with young orphan maiden princesses of an independent turn?"  
  
"I thought you were asleep, and no, it is fairly unusual to come across quite so many achingly beautiful ladies with just the skills to help us on our quest."  
  
"I'm dead. Why would I want to sleep? Don't you think it at all suspicious? Maybe we should kill them all now, before all the flawless amazons turn out to be agents of someone-or-other."  
  
"Well you can bloody well take all the night-watches then. And I would be worried, except that, well the first one is acceptable, yes? And the second was Siggy" He gestured towards where Sigourny, the tall, proud, human female warrior with buns of steel lay asleep, "...and she has the power, allegedly granted her by the Valar, not that they told me, to cause the Industrial Revolution."  
  
His companion blinked his remaining eye; the restless motion of the decay on his face paused, as if with surprise.  
  
"Oh right, kick a man when he's dead," gargled the rotting necromancer. "So she was too surreal to be the agent of any of your enemies?"  
  
"Quite. The third one was Slipi, son of Bjorn Stronginthearm." Gandalf nodded to where the gorgeous dwarven women with the beard like silk lay curled in Boromir's arms, "and well, you have to admit, she is awfully cute. After that they sort of snowballed. Sometimes I think they split down the middle overnight."  
  
Despite his best efforts, Mary couldn't find anything particularly wrong with the bevy, except, maybe, that they were all far too accommodating to each other and him; within half an hour they had accepted him as one of their own. That hadn't happened while he was alive. Acceptance at all had happened only once since his first death, and absence of screaming horror was the best he'd managed after the second. Once he'd lost his hand and his eye to the ghost of Hendrix, this had become that little bit rarer. 


End file.
